


The Dancing Magpies

by Cartopathy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timeline s04e01, Assassination, Character Death, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gun Violence, His Last Vow Spoilers, Infant Death, Johnlock - Freeform, Post-His Last Vow, Serious Injuries, depiction of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cartopathy/pseuds/Cartopathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby Charlotte Watson has been kidnapped. Sherlock knows it's Moriarty, but when he, John, and Mary set out to find Charlotte and Moriarty, they make several surprising and gruesome discoveries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty Crib

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ceywoozle, Belle-of-the-fall and anigrrl2 for beta-ing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [The man] turns toward John. “Ah, there we are then. You’re late.” 
> 
> John aims the gun again. “You’d better be very careful with your words, because my daughter’s been taken and it’s got me in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of mood.”

Sherlock stands over the crib. Brows are furrowed, eyes flitting from perch to perch.  

Behind him, John turns slowly in the rubble. His eyes are red, and his head is shaking. The room is diapers and socks and burp rags and stuffed animals and pink and pink and pink.

John thinks of that first case and the stillborn Rachel and thinks of scraping the name Charlotte into a wooden floor. _It hasn’t happened yet,_ he thinks. _Don’t go there._

He looks up at the family portrait over the rocking chair; it is dangling from its nail, crooked. John crosses his arms. “Well?” 

Sherlock turns to John and steps close, eyes bearing down on John. “You didn't hear the kidnapper make this mess?” 

John's hand to his jaw. “No. No. Mary did this,” he says, wincing.

Sherlock's eyes narrow, then soften. 

“She came to feed Charlotte and found her gone. She just...panicked.” His toe nestles against a plaster form of one small foot in a white circle. He bends to pick up the imprint, running his fingers over the small indentations. “I think she was looking for Charlotte.”  

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “In the dresser? In the closet?”  

John stammers, his mouth hanging open. Deep breath and head shake. “Shock, you know. Desperation.”  

“And that's when you came in?”  

“Yeah, and called you.”  

They stare at each other silently.  

“What have you got, Sherlock? Please. Help. Who did this?”  

Sherlock hands him a small piece of paper. “You know who it is.”  

John takes the paper. It is thick between his fingers, with a rough grain and light sheen. Blue ink is scrawled in neat writing across its surface: “Hush little baby, don't you cry. Papa's gonna make sure that you don't die.”  

John's teeth clench. His eyes burn. Lines scrawl across his forehead. “I've seen this before. This writing.”  

“The pink phone.” Sherlock kneels beside the crib, examining its underside.  

“But wasn't that the curator? What does she have to do with this?”  

“She never addressed that envelope.”  

“Some other woman, then, working for,” John’s head oscillates and he swallows, “Moriarty.”  

“Must be.”

“Where did you find this note?”  

Sherlock stands and points to the mobile. “Taped under there.”  

Mary appears in the doorway. Her face is dangerous. Her clothes are black, lips as pale as her face. “John.”  

He turns to face her, and she holds out his gun for him. He hands her the note. “It's Moriarty.”  

She reads it slowly, her mouth twitching. “Why couldn't he have stayed dead. Why does no one stay dead?” She drops the note and it falls softly to the ground.

She and John stare across the space between, jaws set, eyes determined. John’s eyes fall, then raise sheepishly at Sherlock. 

She says, “Where do we find him, Sherlock? You've been looking for him since his return.”  

“I've narrowed it down to two places.” Behind Sherlock the mobile is swaying. Its pastel magpies—bright in the morning light glaring through the window—are dancing over the empty crib.  

“We'll start with the first.” She pulls out a cartridge and slams it into the butt of her gun. “Let's get this mother.”

* * *

 

The trio stand beside the Watson’s grey car. Sherlock opens the passenger door. “Take me to the main road to get a cab.”  

John and Mary exchange a glance. She climbs in the driver seat.  

From the back, John says, “Where are we all going?”  

Sherlock presses his phone screen. “Empty warehouses. Either Beckton or Battersea.”  

The blinker clicks. Mary turns the wheel. “I’ve got Beckton. What’s the address?”  

“I’ll text it to you. John, go to Beckton.” 

Mary glances at John in the rearview mirror, then sideways to Sherlock. Eyebrows raise.

Sherlock to Mary: “You're a better marksman. He's safer with you.”  

“I'm a bloody soldier.” John leans forward, resting his hand on Sherlock’s seat.  

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  

Mary's lips purse. “But he is a soldier. This is Moriarty we're talking about. There's only so much marksmanship can do, and I would like Charlotte to have at least one parent left by the time this is over.”  

“Sherlock, she's right.”  

Sherlock sighs. “Fine.”  

“Besides, you said I’m a crack shot. If I weren’t you’d have been dead years ago.”  

“Oh, John, calm down. You can still be a crack shot, but you’ll never be as good as her.”  

A smirk flickers across Mary’s face, fast as lightning.  

At the main road, John and Sherlock exit the car. Doors slamming. Mary drives off as John and Sherlock stand on the pavement, waiting for an empty black car.

Soon Sherlock reaches his hand to the air and a cab slows. He opens the door and turns to John. “Take the next one. I’m going to follow Mary.”  

“You want me to go to Battersea by myself? Two seconds ago you thought I needed protecting.”  

“You’re a bloody soldier John, and a crack shot.” Sherlock smiles.  

John smiles back. “Doesn’t mean I don’t hate it.”  

Sherlock’s eyes narrow.  

“This. When you don’t let me in on what you’re really getting up to. When you won’t let me come with you.”  

Sherlock takes a deep breath.  

John grimaces. “When I can’t come with you.”  

Sherlock reaches to John’s elbow. “It’s almost over with her.”  

“It should be over. It would be, but someone bloody took my daughter.” He closes his eyes and sways a moment. “Christ, Sherlock. Charlotte. Go. Go, I’ll take the next cab. Figure out Mary, OK. But don’t forget Charlotte.” 

“If Moriarty is getting revenge on her for leaving his employ, she’ll have better leads than you or I do. Don’t think this isn’t about Charlotte.” 

John nods. Sherlock’s hand tightens on his elbow before releasing. John watches the cab shrink among the traffic then turns to hail the next one. In the back seat, he still feels the coolness on his elbow where the hand is absent. His phone chimes and he reads the address to the driver.

* * *

 

John asks to be dropped a half mile from the warehouse and he walks the rest the way. Outside the premises he pulls his gun from his jeans, pointing it with both hands toward the ground.  

He is back in Afghanistan, entering an abandoned home and praying there are no IEDs hidden among abandoned rag dolls in a child’s room. His chest pulses harder than ever thinking of this shrapnel of human lives rent by a war they had nowt to do with. Where now are those children who left that home hurried by urgent whispers in the dark of night?  

Is that how Charlotte’s room was emptied? 

So his mind is back in the present. Charlotte is God knows where, at least he’d better know, and Mary is not Mary and Sherlock is alone, following her into a warehouse where perhaps Moriraty is hiding and he’ll be outnumbered two to one. John’s left hand clenches.  

He tries not to think of Semtec and gunfire and the ripening red death of Sherlock and Charlotte. His conscience nettles him with _and Mary,_ and his consciousness strikes back with _fuck Mary._

There is a soft rhythmic thudding just around the corner, and John slowly moves toward it. He sees the man in the middle of the room and raises his gun. His hands are steady as a surgeon at work, because he is a surgeon and his hands can give or take life with great skill. And there is a man before him waiting for the judgment of those surgeon’s armed hands.  

The thud again. An umbrella tapping the ground. 

John sighs and lowers the weapon. “Mycroft. The fuck are you doing here?” 

Mycroft turns toward John. “Ah, there we are then. You’re late.” 

He aims the gun again. “You’d better be very careful with your words, because my daughter’s been taken and it’s got me in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of mood.” 

“Sherlock texted me to help you. I thought you’d be here already.” 

John grimaces. “Well why didn’t you just kidnap me like usual. Would have been quicker.” 

“I never kidnap you, John. You come of your own free will.” 

“No. You can’t make decisions under duress; that’s the law.” 

“John Watson.” He smiles. “Do you really think the law is ever against _me_?” 

John puts his gun back into his jeans. The relief he felt upon seeing the umbrella vanishes when he suddenly remembers “Sherlock.” 

“He’ll be safe. I’ve got my people on the Beckton warehouse.” 

“Then where the fuck is my daughter.” 

“You say you can’t make decisions under duress, but it seems that is all you ever do.” 

John can feel the pounding in his chest swell and shrink; the speed is heightened. “Do. You. Know. Where my daughter is.” 

“I do not. But I’ve just told you my people are at Beckton. They are exceptional at surveillance—as you well know—and we will resolve this as quickly and peacefully as possible.” Mycroft’s phone chimes and he looks at the screen. “Now go to Baker Street and wait for Sherlock.”

“What about Mary?” 

“What about her?” 

John stammers, and Mycroft says “I didn’t think so.”

 

 


	2. Hansel and Gretel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shakes his head. “I mean, I know Moriarty’s a madman. Completely off hit nut. But children?” He glances to Sherlock who is still staring.
> 
> “Hansel and Gretel.”
> 
> “But a baby? A small baby? She’s only…” he cradles the empty air before him and stares at the crick of his elbow where that head has rested for so many hours, and he would give his life only to have that tortuous midnight wailing back again. ... “What now?”

John settles into his chair. The black one opposite is empty. Lightning lines of white spread from the corners to the worn patches in the middle. He’d memorized them those last few months before Christmas when Sherlock was still at hospital and John couldn’t sleep next to Mary. 

Now Mrs. Hudson is in the kitchen clattering with the kettle. She carries the tray to John and sets it on the side table. “Chin up, love, you two will work things out. You just need to communicate.”

John stammers. “No, I know. It’s just, it’s hard sometimes. To talk to Mary.”

Mrs. Hudson uncrosses her arms. “Oh, Mary. Yes, of course, dear. I understand.” She heads down the stairs and leaves John alone.

Empty Baker Street is an odd comfort. Memories float here like agitated dust after years of vacancy, but the absence of that voice whinging into the night, the flames and clangs in the kitchen of a most decidedly un-culinary nature remind John of two years of so much silence.

He clenches the armrests and imagines the consequences if Mycroft’s confidence is misplaced. If there is no surveillance at Beckton. If the newscasters are already powdering faces to announce the tragic deaths in their trademarked somberness. 

But the door clacks open and the stairs creak and John can smell from there the familiar presence. It is not a smell he knew he could recognize until that moment. His fear for Charlotte does not fall from his heart, but still he wells with gladness as Sherlock says “So Battersea was empty, too? Mycroft texted me.”

John turns. “You mean Beckton was empty?”

Sherlock slumps into his chair. “Nothing there.” After eyeing John he sits up straighter and crosses his legs. 

“So, where’s Mary?”

“I couldn’t let her know I followed her. She texted. Said Beckton’s empty, should she come to Battersea. Mycroft had texted by then so I was able to wave her off and say I must have been wrong.”

John looks exasperated. “You told her you must have been wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow.

“You can’t say that. She’ll know something’s up, now.”

“But I _was_ wrong.”

John stares.

“Beckton and Battersea were empty. I’m going to have to fire Billy.”

John snorts. “Give him a good reference, though, would you? Experienced chemist. Well connected.” He stares at the floor.

“John.”

Eyes raise. Sherlock’s eyes are intense, so he looks away.

“We’ll find Charlotte.”

John shakes his head. “I mean, I know Moriarty’s a madman. Completely off hit nut. But children?” He glances to Sherlock who is still staring.

“Hansel and Gretel.”

“But a baby? A small baby? She’s only…” he cradles the empty air before him and stares at the crick of his elbow where that head has rested for so many hours, and he would give his life only to have that tortuous midnight wailing back again. His life, and Mary’s and Sherlock’s. Limbs. Sherlock’s limbs. That is not a death he can survive again, even if he’s already dead himself. “What now?”

“Mycroft is on it.”

“Nope. Not good enough. I’m sitting in a chair and I don’t know where my wife is and my daughter has been taken.”

Sherlock’s gaze does not falter. His jaw falls slightly open and he breathes deep. “It was wrong of me to ask you here. Go to her.”

John swallows. His eyes fall to Sherlock’s knees. “I can’t. She can’t comfort me.”

“If you don’t go, she’ll know.”

John stands. His voice is loud and he cannot feel the earth around him. “I don’t care if she knows. I can’t do it any more. She’s no one to me any more and I can’t live with her and, and, I just…” His left hand clenches. 

Sherlock leans forward and takes it in his own. “Then stay. What worse can happen now?”

John pulls his hand away. His eyes narrow at Sherlock, but he doesn’t ask any questions. Remember, he tells himself, the code on the wall by the train tracks, when he grabbed your face and you _thought_? And when he drunkenly said _any time_ and you _thought_? And when he said to take his hand, and you _thought_? But you were fugitives that time, and crime solving, and nothing ever made sense. And when the crimes were gone there was never an odd moment that made you _think_ , and you spent all those nights staring at the ceiling, listening to the clattering in the kitchen and cringing with the smell of burnt flesh wafting and couldn’t sleep. And you told yourself it was because of the unpleasantness of those uncanny habits, but knew very well it was because you were _thinking_.

John sits in his chair. “She got married under a false name. I don’t see why she can’t get divorced under that name.”

“That’s not why we’ve planned it this way.”

“I mean, I’m not sure I can do it. They’ll execute her. It’s not like sending her to Pentonville, or wherever they send women.” He shakes his head at the floor. “I don’t know why we even have extradition treaties with these places.”

“Legacy, I presume.”

John smiles an angry smile. “Though I’m one to talk. I’ve been known to take a Browning to a cab driver now and then.”

Sherlock is staring at John with that face that makes John think of his wedding. He feels that oppressive sadness that is conjured every time _December, 1963_ plays on the radio when he’s driving with Mary, or at the shops when he’s sneaking hob nobs into the trolley. He tries to ignore that stare and is quickly relieved by a knock at the door. 

By the time he arrives downstairs a CD-case is sitting on the threshold. The pavement is empty; only a young couple a few doors down, holding hands and giggling. John smiles to himself at the height difference between the woman with checkered scarf, and the taller man with the curling hair. But there are several cars, and any one of them could contain whomever knocked. He carries the CD upstairs.

Sherlock holds up his phone. “Mary said she couldn’t sit still. She went back to Beckton, and he was there.”

“With Charlotte?”

“Didn’t say.”

John pulls out his own phone. There is no text alert. “Why would she text you?”

“What do you have? Who was at the door?”

“CD. No one. I mean, they left, I guess. ”

Sherlock holds out his hand and John releases the CD. His laptop whirs when he puts it in, the media player starts. The video is a black square playing static.

And then a broad Dublin accent spills smooth from the speakers.

___

_It isn’t working. [click] He doesn’t want you.”_

___

John’s left hand.

The voice in response is one that once said "to have and to hold, for better or worse."

_____

_He will. When I bring his daughter home to him. He won’t have any choice._

_[Moriarty] You’d better hope that works out for you. Because I can make sure he never leaves you._

_[Mary] Don’t threaten me._

_[Moriarty] Ohhh. Ooooh. You are feisty. But I’m not sure you understand how this works._

_[A pause and a click.]_

_[Moriarty continues] All I have to do is make sure John Watson finds out Charlotte isn’t his. Don’t worry. He doesn’t have much ground to be upset with you. Because do you know where he is right now? Waiting at your house for the comfort of his dear darling cuckold? No, no, no, no, no. He wouldn’t go to you, would he? Where, where would John Watson go?_

_____

Both John’s hands are clenched in fists. He can feel the heat on his face. He keeps thinking _Charlotte Madeleine Watson, Watson, Watson, Watson_. 

But the black square now broadcasting static again is replaced with the faltering image of a note. That blue pen. That same handwriting. The nursery rhyme continues:

But if John goes to Sherlock Holmes, Papa’s gonna tell him that you’re not his.

John can feel the tears just behind his eyes, fighting with daggers to break free. He looks at Sherlock but doesn’t speak. Sherlock’s eyes latch on to John’s and they are silent, but their shoulders rise and fall quickly and their faces and eyes are red, and their jaws are shifting.


	3. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: “John thanked me for texting you to meet him there.”
> 
> Mycroft’s lips press flat.
> 
> “I didn’t have the heart to tell him I never texted. That you were there of your own recognizance. That you probably know where his daughter is.”
> 
> “Sherlock, I-“
> 
> “Don’t defend yourself. And don’t lie. Though it all suits you very well, I really don’t have the patience today.”
> 
> Mycroft blinks rapidly.
> 
> “You knew Moriarty was back.”
> 
> Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Elementary, dear brother.”

The car slows before the Diogenes club and Sherlock emerges, tugging his coat snug and flipping his collar up against a breeze. A deep breath before he crosses the threshold to Mycroft’s realm.

Sherlock is unperturbed by the silence, knowing that the quiet slough of his feet against carpet is enough to turn heads. He can see it in their eyes—the so many crinkles creasing tighter as they disdain his pearl smooth face dimmed only by the stark shadows beneath his cheek bones—their envy. He savors it out of habit, this singular form of affection from among the notice he draws. 

But outside Mycroft’s door, his face falls for a second. He blinks at the large handle, then clasps it and tosses his fringe from his face in a swift flick. His teeth clench. When the door is closed behind him he says, “Brother mine. You’re really too appalling.”

“Oh, Sherlock, what is it now.” It is very decidedly not a question.

“You were at Battersea.”

The curving eyebrows raise.

“John thanked me for texting you to meet him there.”

Mycroft’s lips press flat.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell him I never texted. That you were there of your own recognizance. That you probably know where his daughter is.”

“Sherlock, I-“

“Don’t defend yourself. And don’t lie. Though it all suits you very well, I really don’t have the patience today.”

Mycroft blinks rapidly.

“You knew Moriarty was back.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Elementary, dear brother.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker dangerously.

 “Oh, honestly, even that Anderson fellow _nearly_ stumbled upon it.”

“Then why not tell me?”

Mycroft closes the folder before him. His forearms rest against the corner of the desk, his hands fold. “I needed to keep him until he was useful. You were going to your death.”

Sherlock straightens his coat. “Please, none of that Christmas effusiveness again.”

A grimace. “I was hardly effusive. You _could_ stand to be less austere.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raise. Eyes wide. “Hell has frozen.” 

Mycroft sighs. He stands and approaches Sherlock, sitting on the corner of his desk. His smile is sour. His head tilts. “Remember when Redbeard ran away?”

Sherlocks clears his throat and sits up straighter. “He didn't run _away_. We were on holiday and he came looking for us.”

Sigh. “Yes. Nevertheless, he was gone when we returned.” His eyes close for a moment. “You were inconsolable.”

“Oh, don't be dramatic.”

“I don't mean that you cried or any of that nonsense. But no one could stop you from putting those flyers up. You nearly wallpapered the town.” He stands and walks back behind his desk. He stares at the wall, faced away from Sherlock. “You told everyone you could.”

“What's your point?”

Mycroft turns. He leans against his hands on the desk, towering over Sherlock. “The first time you lost Redbeard _wasn't_ when we took him to be put down. Since it turns out you're already involved, I hope my history lessons don't fall on deaf ears. Again.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll. “More concretely. Please.”

Mycroft stands straight again, before sitting in his chair and crossing his legs. “Ah, yes. Certainly. Well, I've been gathering information on Moriarty, naturally. He's been building his nest, as he is wont to do. But I don't know who his little helpers are.”

“You don't know?”

“I’m not like you Sherlock. I don't mind not knowing. It's the not knowing that gives me something to do.”

“Or gives you something for me to do.”

“I’m a busy man. I delegate. What do you think Parliament are for?”

Sherlock stands. Hands in pockets. “Well, this has been very enlightening.”

When Sherlock reaches the door, Mycroft says “Aren’t you in the least bit curious why I summoned you here today?”

Sherlock throws his head back, eyes closed. “So that’s why you were at Battersea. To summon me, as it were.”

“One might _almost_ think you’re clever.” He clears his throat and lifts the file from his desk. “He’s at Beckton, as you know by now. I take it you received a recording earlier.”

“It was edited.”

“Naturally. The copy in here is not.” He holds the file out for Sherlock, but does not look up at him. 

Sherlock crosses the office and clasps the file.

Mycroft does not release it. “Do take care…”

“Oh, honestly.”

“—Take care not to share it with John until you absolutely must. I worry it will kill him.”

Sherlock hears the words, but keeps them in the periphery of his mind, swatting them like flies. “Is the Interpol data in here as well?”

“What do you take me for? It’s everything you’ll need.” 

Sherlock does leave now. But the envy is no longer savory or sweet, and his footsteps are no longer a whisper. He exits the Diogenes and waits on the pavement for another imperious car.

His mind is lost in a darkened countryside, where rain and tears lashed his face and crinkled those so many sheets of paper. Mycroft had told him over and over, “there are only 74 people in the village and every single one knows Redbeard is yours and missing and what he looks like. You’re wasting time and creating an eyesore.” And he’d yelled in return “I don’t care. I don’t even care. It’s Redbeard!”

Now it is not just his mind in that countryside but his heart as well, aching for the missing beloved. It is the ache he felt that morning at John’s standing over the empty crib. He thinks, _Charlotte._

But he felt the feeling elsewise that morning. 

_Charlotte. Charlotte._

It is there in the memory of releasing John’s elbow 

_Charlotte’s gone missing like Redbeard._

The memory of John pulling his hand from Sherlock’s.

_I must plaster the town to get Charlotte back where she belongs, with John._

The moment his mind hears the name John, Sherlock is weakened, nearly double over in pain, and grateful that the car is here and he can fold himself into its backseat and hide his warm face behind a well turned collar.

 


	4. St. Bartholomew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The photos fall to the ground and John doubles over, gripping his stomach which is loosing its contents all over Mary’s shoes. He feels hands on his back and hears Mary sobbing, and the world is sideways and he is falling off of the floor, he must be. He can feel the tumbling, tumbling, tumbling.

John hovers over the slide where Molly is placing droplets of solution to cure his saliva. 

Molly’s hands are steady until the drops are placed and her hands are at her side. Then her upper lip starts to fold into her mouth and her hands are fists in her pocket. “Tom cheated on me, too.”

John’s mouth opens. He stammers.

“Sorry.” She seems surprised by her own words. “I mean. I’m sorry. If. It’s just, I know how it feels.”

John thinks of Mary and her silencer and Sherlock in the hospital. “You really don’t.”

She smiles. Nervous giggle. Her eyes darken. “I know. My feelings don’t count because I’m sweet. Everyone always thinks I’m sweet.” She winces and stares at the counter top. 

John’s head jerks backwards. “You are sweet. Always. What’s wrong with sweet?”

She places the slide on a microscope. Sighs. “Nothing.”

He crosses his arm, eyes arching toward the ceiling.

“None of my corpses ever think I’m sweet.” She smiles proudly.

John chuckles politely and looks at his watch. Sherlock should really be here by now. 

But Molly says, “Do you know who the father is?”

Eyebrows raise.

“Er. I mean. Who would it be, if not you?”

John squints at his feet. “Moriarty? I think?”

Molly snorts. “Jim!” She smiles at her microscope. “I told you he isn’t gay.”

“You told Sherlock. I never misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood what?”

John leans his head from side to side. “He’s not great with nuance, Sherlock. Gay. Not gay. That’s all he really knows.”

Molly is the one who stammers now. He can see the smile that is fighting for a place on her lips. She does not allow it.

_Christ_ , he thinks. _Sherlock’s thicker than Molly Hooper._

“We won’t get far without Charlotte’s sample.”

John to his watch again. “Sherlock was going to stop by my house and find something.”

“Making him run errands for you?”

The word _jealous_ flickers across his mind. He says “I couldn’t. I couldn’t. If Mary were there.” Then he thinks again of her silencer and pulls out his phone to text Sherlock.

 

> _Are you going to come? JW_

Molly says, “What’s he planning to find? Something with blood?” Her eyes are wide and shining.

“What? No. Why?” John’s head shakes.

Her head falls. “I know. Don’t make jokes, Molly.”

He sighs. “Sherlock will know when he sees it. He’s better in a laboratory than I am. Another reason I sent him.”

* * *

 

Sherlock exits the car, clasping the file to his chest beneath his coat. He flicks the knocker crooked before leaping up the stairs. 

The file flops against his desk, the cover opening. He runs his fingers over the CD.

 

> _I’m coming. Mycroft summoned me. You know all about that. SH_

He unsheathes the CD from its white envelope and places in his laptop. Whirring, and the window opens and he watches.

* * *

“Oh, Christ.” John says.

Molly looks up.

“Mycroft commandeered Sherlock. I’ll have to go to the house.”

“I could come with you if you don’t want to see…” she clears her throat. “I mean, cause I’m better than you. Uh. In a laboratory.”

“Right. Yeah. Um.”

But before they have a chance to leave Bart’s Mary is pushing through the swinging door. Her face is redder than her coat and she’s holding out an envelope.

“What is it? Mary? What’s wrong?” Habit draws John to her, his arms around her and pulling her close. His shirt grows warm beneath her face.

“The pictures, John. Moriarty.”

John looks to Molly, who bites her bottom lip.

John backs away and takes the envelope. Inside there are photos. Red and black where there should be pale and blond. There is no face left, only fat thighs and the birthmark John had kissed a thousand times and a thousand more. 

The photos fall to the ground and John doubles over, gripping his stomach which is loosing its contents all over Mary’s shoes. He feels hands on his back and hears Mary sobbing, and the world is sideways and he is falling off of the floor, he must be. He can feel the tumbling, tumbling tumbling. Sourness is rich in his mouth and behind his eyes, and they pucker, and even when they close, all he can see is those photos. 

A thin hand, must be Molly’s reaches to the pile of images. One of them rises, clasped between fingers, behind John’s head. “I think,” she says. “I think.” Silence. “I have this one. I didn’t, I didn’t know it was, I, they didn’t have a name, I didn’t know.”

John is still stooped and clasping his stomach, but Mary looks up. “Where. Show me. I need to see.”

The women are standing by the door. “John, are you coming.”

He shakes his head and moans. “I…I…” His eyes are scouring the photos again, and he notices the one flipped on its face in his vomit. He lifts it and it drips—drops splatter onto the wet floor—and there are blue letters in that precise sans serif handwriting:

But John will want you anyway, so—whoops!—you’ll have to go away.

A familiar fury enters John and fills him up. He rises and stands at attention. His chest puffs and his teeth grit. “Show me.” He says. “I need to see.”

* * *

 

When they are done coddling the small body, Molly calls them a cab and John and Mary return to their house. John stands in the nursery door and remembers when last night he’d stood over the screaming bundle for an hour, cooing and singing and rocking before he’d had to set her down and walk to the kitchen and punch the cabinet. “She just never shuts up,” he’d said when Mary entered and questioned him. 

Guilt grips him, squeezing tight and his breaths are short and incompetent. 

Mary’s hand on his back. “What now? What do we do?”

He turns to her. Her face is unfamiliar, the blonde locks angelic against her face and her eyes seem so dim compared to memories that did not seem cheery the first time around. A new guilt grips him and he cannot bring himself to say he told Molly to run the test anyway. He’d hoped just two hours earlier Charlotte wasn’t his and he could give up the plan with Interpol and just leave Mary. But now, no matter what the test said, Charlotte was his daughter. Always was, always will be. 

But he had to know about Mary. 

She is shaking before him, broken as he is and they climb in bed though it is early afternoon. Their jeans and coats are still tied around them and they lie in a pile crying and shaking until they sleep. They sleep until the sun sets, and until the stars flicker and their arms are numb beneath each other’s backs.


	5. Tea and Sympathy (and Helicopters)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can’t come over.  
> I need to stay with Mary. JW
> 
> Give me one hour. SH
> 
> I can’t. JW
> 
> One hour out of the whole rest of  
> your life. You make up your mind  
> for yourself after that one hour,  
> and I will let you go. SH

John blinks into the darkness, trying to remember the noise that woke him. A chime. A familiar chime. He shimmies his arms from underneath Mary and quietly leaves the bed. She does not stir.

He cannot believe it never occurred to him to call Sherlock and tell him. 

He picks up his phone. _Can you sneak over without Mary knowing? SH_

The flutter in his chest is nauseating because the text makes him _think_ but he doesn’t want to _think_ anymore. How could he after such a thing? Even if the test proved him a cuckold, he couldn’t leave Mary now. Could he?

 John’s phone reads:

_Charlotte, Sherlock. Did you hear?_  
 _I can’t come over._  
 _I need to stay with Mary._

Give me one hour. SH

_I can’t._

One hour out of the whole rest of  
your life. You make up your mind  
for yourself after that one hour,  
and I will let you go. SH

_Let me go?_

I am begging you for this hour.  
I will never beg you for anything  
after this, if you come. SH  
Do you trust me? SH

 _Of course. But you’re missing_  
the human element. My daughter  
just died. I need to be with my wife.  
It has nothing to do with trust.

What about love? SH

_What about it?_

Do you love me? If so, give me one hour.  
And it has to be this one. SH

_Fuck. You bastard.  
On my way._

* * *

John yawns as he climbs the Baker Street stairs. His very empty stomach begins to rumble and ache, but he is not sure he can bear food. 

Sherlock is standing at the door. He is pacing, and each hand is wringing itself by his side. When he sees John he flickers a smile and then hurries to help with his coat. 

“Tea?” he says, scurrying toward the kitchen.

“Did I just abandon my wife for a cuppa?”

Sherlock pauses over the kettle. He is silent and still; a switch has turned inside him, the switch that narrows his energy from the fully refracted spectrum into a single laser point of focus. His shoulders rise and fall. “John.”

John stares at those shoulder blades.

“I’m going to make you tea.”

Intuition scrapes against John like a bramble, so he says nothing. The kettle screams. The tea steeps. Cream is poured. A plate of biscuits. They sip quietly until John says, “What am I doing here?”

Sherlock’s fingers tap against the file from Mycroft. He sighs and walks into the living room. “I’ll get the video ready.”

John sips. He stands to gather more biscuits, an apple, a slice of cheese. “I read the USB stick, same as you. I know who she is, how many times she tried to help Moriarty kill us, how many true innocents she killed.” But he eyes the folder as he returns to his stool. He flips the cover open and sees a photo of Mary. “I don’t see how anything in here is going to make a difference. We’ve still just lost our child.” Beside Mary is a photo of a man. John lifts it and stares. “Isn’t this?”

“Hmm?”

“Lord Moran’s brother?”

“Yes. Sebastian.”

“Who is he though? Why is he here?”

“He was Moriarty’s right hand. Until Mary came along.”

“She had to kill him to take his position?”

“Yes. Though she was slightly justified. Moran the Younger had betrayed Moriarty, though I don’t know to whom or why. He was a double agent. He started to stray too far east and Mary caught up to him in India. Killed him at the Taj Mahal.”

John takes a deep breath and then sighs.

“Wish I could have worked that case.”

“You’re definitely keeping perspective here. I knew she was wanted in India. Knowing all the details isn’t going to change my mind.”

“That file isn’t why I invited you over.”

“What is?”

Sherlock carries his laptop to the couch. “Sit down.”

John eyes Sherlock suspiciously, then sits on the couch. Sherlock sits next to him and props the laptop on his knees, turning it toward John. “The recording that was left here earlier was edited, obviously.”

John swallows. 

“This one isn’t. I need you to listen to the whole thing.” 

John’s eyes rest on that face; he allows it to comfort him. Sherlock looks back and their eyes lock for a so long moment before John nods. “OK.”

This time Mary’s voice is the first to speak:

___

_John and Sherlock went to Battersea. Our plan is working fine._

_[Then Moriarty] It isn’t working. Sherlock followed you here the first time. I can’t use John to control him anymore, and John? He doesn’t want you._

_[Mary] He will. When I bring his daughter home to him. He won’t have any options._

_[Moriarty] “You’d better hope that works out for you. Cause I can make sure he never leaves you._

_[Mary] “Don’t threaten me.”_

_[Moriarty] “Ohhh. Ooooh. You are feisty. But I’m not sure you understand how this works.”_

_[Mary] “We had a deal. I brought you the kid.”_

_____

John doesn’t realize that he clasps Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock shakes his other leg, trying to alleviate the pain.

___

_[Moriarty] All I have to do is make sure John Watson finds out Charlotte isn’t his. Don’t worry. He doesn’t have much ground to be upset with you. Because do you know where he is right now? Waiting at your house for the comfort of his dear darling cuckold? No, no, no, no, no. He wouldn’t go to you, would he? Where, where would John Watson go?_

_[Mary] I’m not threatened by Sherlock._

_[Moriarty] If you were, I wouldn't be working with you now. But that’s not how this story ends, is it. Because why would he stay with you then? No, the story ends with happy ever after, John and Mary sitting in a tree, K-I-L-L-I-N-G. And that’s what I’m going to do. Not to you. Not to John. I’m sure you know where this is heading._

_[He sings] Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Jimmy’s gonna make sure you’re well interred._

_[Speaking] Now go home. I’ve got some of my worker bees to take you there. I’m sure you can guess what their instructions are, given you used to be one of them. Bear that in mind while you head back to Croydon._

_Mary: If you kill her, I will come after you. And don’t think John won’t join me._

_Moriarty: I know. Like I said. John and Mary sitting in a tree. _

_____

 The recording silences. John is vibrating on the couch, his left hand still clenching Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock slides his hand beneath it and squeezes tight. “Don’t worry,” he says, “There’s good news, too. Just listen.”

___

_[Male] Is she gone?_

_[Moriarty] That will be a long car ride back to Croydon._

_[Male] I found a suitable body. Only a few weeks older than the subject, and similar size and shape. I took her to Bart’s this morning._

_[Moriarty] Well, that’s the last piece of the puzzle._

_[Male] Is Charlotte safe, though?_

_[Moriarty] That’s not your concern._

_[Male] It’s just, the Watson’s were always so nice. I quite like them. Such a lovely wedding._

_[Moriarty] Charlotte’s in Sussex. Janine was chuffed to have her. Thinks the Watsons are on holiday._

___ 

John stands quickly, knocking the laptop to the ground. “We have to go. Now. To Sussex.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“Sherlock!”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

“Mary? What about Mary?”

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. _Fuck_ Mary.” He sits in his red chair, leaned over, hands behind his head. “Christ. Mary.” He moans and grips the back of his neck. “We’ll have to do it. We’ll have to.” He looks up at Sherlock.

Sherlock crosses from the couch, sits on the edge of his own chair, hands on John’s knees. “Maybe you want to think about it. You might change your mind.”

“Nope. Nope, I won’t. She kidnapped our own child and gave her to Moriarty. _Fucking Moriarty_. She used our daughter as a pawn. Nope, I’m never going to change my mind. Give me your phone, I’m calling Mycroft.”

“He’s sleeping, now.”

“For fucks sake, Sherlock, give me your phone!”

“John.” He leans back in his chair. “I think we should recover Charlotte first. If Mary’s arrested, who knows what Moriarty will do.”

John’s eyes are wide. “Janine. Christ. Is everyone we know evil? And who was that man? He was at our wedding?”

John stands and paces. Sherlock watches.

“Sherlock. I need to kill something. Hurt something. Do something”

“I’d let you shoot the wall, but I think it would wake Mrs. Hudson.”

“OK. OK. So. We go to Sussex. We get Charlotte. We call Mycroft to arrest Mary.”

“First train direct to Sussex leaves at 5:02.”

“That’s in three hours. I want a fucking helicopter, and I want it now! Call Mycroft.”

Sherlock pulls out his phone. “I’ll text Lestrade.”


	6. AGRA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hand on Mary's back pushes, and she stumbles forward a few steps. 
> 
> “Mrs. Watson.” She recognizes the voice and understands immediately.
> 
> The fabric over her head is removed from behind her, and she sees him standing there. Two gloved hands and one gun. “This isn’t how justice works,” she says.

Lestrade rolls over, and squints into darkness. He lifts his phone, which has just shone white. He shades his eyes from its light for a few moments before he reads the text. 

Help. SH 

“Bloody hell.” He yawns. His fingers have trouble finding the letters. 

_John hasn’t been kidnapped,_  
he’s married, remember? He doesn't  
live there anymore. 

I know. It’s a danger night,  
and I don’t have my John  
to help me. Please, Greg. SH 

Lestrade’s eyes go wide. “He used my real name, he must be serious,” he mutters. He throws the blue brocade duvet from his legs and slowly stands. Before he steps into the hallway he looks back at the bed longingly. Yawns. Stares at his phone for a moment and thinks, _No, I’ll text Mycroft in the morning._

* * *

John answers the door at Baker Street. “Oh, fuck, John, what are you doing here?”

Sherlock runs down the stairs behind John. “Sorry John, I lied to Graham, you’re fine. Hi, come inside. Quickly.”

In the foyer Lestrade says “What the fuck is this?”

John crosses his arms. “My daughter was kidnapped. We know where she is, but we need the Yard to bring her back. She should be safe. We don’t think they have intentions of harming her.”

Lestrade’s defensiveness slides off of him and his face is wrought with pain. “Why didn't you call sooner?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Because we wanted to find her. And we didn’t call Scotland Yard, we called you.”

“You just want us to do the dirty work?”

“If you would, please.” Sherlock smiles.

Lestrade stares at John and they both grimace. “What do you need?”

“John would like a helicopter. I think it would be too conspicuous.”

“I’ll call some people down there to stake out the house, we’ll get it under control. We can leave now, I’ll call in the car.”

John stammers a moment. “Stay with Mycroft. He’s going to have a job for you in a few hours.”

Sherlock exchanges a quick glance with John, and John nods

Lestrade: “I’m just your pawn.”

Sherlock rests his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “No, Geoff, you’re so much more than that. You’ve also got handcuffs.”

John nods. “You’ll need those later. Stay with Mycroft”

Lestrade stammers, eyebrows raise. “Just promise you’ll let my people do the footwork.”

* * *

 

Mycroft hears his phone ringing and begrudgingly opens his eyes. The name is Scotland Yard 3, and he answers, understands Greg’s orders and sits up. The covers are folded and messed and he sighs. The curtains are drawn and Mycroft can just make out their navy paisleys in the moonlight. The yellow of dawn is just humming above the horizon.

The duvet—same pattern and sheen as the curtains—is smooth against his legs. He showers. Dresses in Gieves and Hawkes and pulls out a briefcase from the back of his closet. He unlatches it, eyes training over the barrel and trigger and cartridge.

Mycroft texts: _Hungry?_

Greg responds: _Starving._

He calls to the kitchen and orders two breakfasts.

* * *

 

Sherlock and John are rattling through darkness on a train racing toward the southern shore. Neither can sleep, but they are resting their heads and their eyes, checking their phones and staring anxiously from the windows. 

They sit facing each other, like so many evenings in their respective chairs, like that one evening when they chased a ghost. John props his feet against the edge of Sherlock’s seat. “What happened?” he says.

Sherlock shakes his head, arising from a stupor. “What? When?”

“You never tried to convince me. Before. We read the USB stick, and you let me make all the choices and you said you didn’t want to influence my decision.”

Sherlock clears his throat.

“But tonight you begged me for an hour to change my mind. Was it just Charlotte?”

Sherlock uncrosses his legs and leans forward. He takes a sharp breath and then waits. “My brother told me a story about a dog.”

John closes his eyes. “I’m not familiar with that euphemism.”

Sherlock stares at John until his eyes open again. They stare at each other, and Sherlock says, “I realized I was overcompensating.”

“For what?”

“For,” he leans back and sighs. “For wanting to get rid of her for my own reasons. I felt. Guilty.”

John moves his feet to the ground and rests his elbows on his knees. “She did shoot you. I probably could have handled your bias.”

“I don’t think you could. Because, she shot me, but she also married you.” He quickly leans back, head turned from John and eyes closed.

John is wincing at the window, trying not to _think_. “You wanted me back in Baker Street. Solving crimes, blogging, forgetting our pants.”

Sherlock lifts his head and looks briefly into John’s eyes before letting his gaze fall to his knees, and his eyes linger and he blinks furiously. “Let’s not.”

John swallows, and they continue to rattle in silence. 

Soon John’s phone rings; Greg’s name is on the screen. “Hello,” he picks it up in a hurry.

“John. We got her. She’s safe. They’ve taken her to hospital as a precaution. It’s just routine, but she looks great.”

“I need to see her. Which hospital?”

“I’ll text you the address. How’s Sherlock?”

John looks over to him, remembers the look in his eyes when they scoured his knees. “He’s holding in. I think.”

“I woke Mycroft. He was worried.”

“I need Charlotte in my arms before anything else happens, OK?”

“Yep. I’ll tell him. How far out are you?”

“About 30 minutes.”

He hangs up and Sherlock is on the edge of his seat. “She’s in hospital?”

“She’s safe. Just precaution.”

“And you’ll call Mycroft after we get there.”

“Yes. I will.” 

They stare at each other, their eyes locked until John hangs his head and presses his face into his hands. His face is hot and he can feel the tears breaking through no matter how hard he fights them. But his hands are wet and he whimpers until he must take a breath and it is only a sob that shakes him head to toe. 

The seat beside him depresses, scrapes. An arm on his back and one holding his shoulder and he collapses into their grip and shakes and shakes and Sherlock does not let go.

* * *

 

At hospital he cradles Charlotte and holds her close to him and will not let go, like Sherlock on the train. She is crying, shrieking, and John can only thank God for that noise. He asks Sherlock to dial and hold the phone to his ear because he will not release Charlotte.  “Mycroft. Run the warrant. I told Lestrade to be prepared; is he there? OK.”

When the line disconnects he feels a shell of anxiety fall from his body. Charlotte here and Mary there. He looks up. And Sherlock. He sees the light glinting in those eyes and he doesn’t _think_ anymore. All is well.

* * *

 

Mary is wearing a dark green jumpsuit and her arms and legs are chained. She is shuffled slowly into the back of the cargo jet, and buckled snugly to a makeshift seat. It is black and silent until the engines roar and the plane speeds down the runway and then the eerie emptiness of floating in air, for hours and hours and Mary can only think how she’ll never see Charlotte again unless Moriarty steps in, and how it was her own doing. 

She doesn’t cry. She just stares into the dark belly of the plane lost in her own regrets. And her stomach turns. She can feel the plane descending. Too soon.

Too soon, too soon. And half an hour later the tires thud against ground and nerves wrack her body and turn her alert. The plane slows and stops. The back hatch opens and floods with light and her eyes slowly adjust. When they do, it is closed again and she sees nothing, but hears scuffles and feels hands on her head. Fabric is tightened across her face, fastened around her neck. 

She can feel the light again when the hatch reopens and winces though she can see nothing. They march her toward the brightness, one captor at each elbow, and her feet chink with each step. She can soon feel breeze and feel the sunlight warm her canvas suit and sweat pours down her face. 

A hand on her back pushes, and she stumbles forward a few steps. 

“Mrs. Watson.” She recognizes the voice and understands immediately.

The fabric over her head is removed from behind her, and she sees him standing there. Two gloved hands and one gun. “This isn’t how justice works,” she says.

“You killed my inside agent. Which I understand. It’s only part of the game. But I needed him against Moriarty to keep my brother safe. You took that away when you so adeptly removed his head with your shotgun.”

Her head tilts. 

Mycroft steps closer to her. “And then you had to infiltrate. Marry John to control Sherlock to get to me. But you were too hungry. You had to shoot him.”

“You can’t do this. You wouldn’t. You’re too noble. ‘The British Government.’ You abide by laws.”

“I do. I do very much indeed. But not all those laws belong to my country. Some of them are mine alone. You cannot kill my brother and walk free. It is simply not allowed.” He steps back and holds the barrel to her forehead, pointing toward the nape of her neck. “Now you kneel.”

She kneels slowly. “You won’t take a mother from her daughter.”

He keeps the gun to her head and slowly walks behind her. The barrel is against the back of her skull and he pushes her head toward the ground. “I won’t say that John didn’t complicate things. I didn’t plan to separate you from your daughter, but he insisted I wait. Familial privilege is not entirely lost on me.” 

“It would seem not.”

“Goodbye, Mary Morstan. And good riddance.” He pulls the trigger. 

Blood splays against the tarmac with pieces of blonde scattering. Mycroft sighs and holds the gun out by its handle. 

Anthea appears with a plastic bag and collects it. “Our local affiliates have arrived to clean the mess.”

Mycroft looks down at his shoes, then rolls his eyes. 

“Your change of clothes?”

“Never wear Gieves and Hawkes to an assassination.”

* * *

 

Charlotte is in hospital over night, in the nursery with the other babies, simply to be monitored. John and Sherlock take a room at the hotel across the street, and though he has not slept all night, John still cannot sleep.  Sherlock however is soon snoring on the bed next to John’s.

John spends the evening and night with the telly turned on for a bit of noise, the yammering newscasters talking nonstop, but finds himself watching Sherlock for long bouts. 

Sleep comes by five-thirty and Sherlock is up by seven. John wakes to a hand on his shoulder and wipes the drool from his lips. 

“John, John. It’s morning. We can get Charlotte.”

John looks up. Sherlock is dressed; his clothes from yesterday fresh pressed. John yawns and stretches. “You been up long?”

“Just had a shower. Ironed your shirt.” He tosses the shirt and jeans from the ironing board, and they land on John’s face. 

John stands, stretches again. He pulls jeans over yesterday’s pants in a daze and buttons his shirt. “Coffee.” 

“I just set the coffee maker. Give it a minute.” 

John scuffles over to the sink and sees the mug waiting by the coffee maker with two creamers already poured in the bottom. “Why?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunched.

“Never mind. Of course.”

When they are ready to leave and step into the hallway, Sherlock lifts the newspaper. Below the fold is a small picture of Mary. The headline reads “Extradited assassin presumed dead.” He folds it and saves it for later.

* * *

John spends the entire train ride with Charlotte in his arms. Sherlock unfolds the newspaper and shows John the article. A flurry of pain and nerves and guilts shudders through him. “Already?”

“The plane made a supposed emergency landing in an abandoned Kyrgyz airfield. When the plane arrived in India, Mary wasn’t there.”

“So she could be anywhere.”

“Do you know how many planes carrying wanted assassins make emergency landings?”

John stares at Charlotte, thinking. “A lot? Maybe?”

“A highly disproportionate number. She  _could_  be anywhere, but she’s  _not_. She’s dead.”

John inhales. Blinks at Charlotte. He presses his finger to her nose and says, “I’m so sorry, Lotte girl. Mummy’s gone away.” And he rocks her and she stays asleep and peaceful.

* * *

They go to Bart’s first, to get the testing because John is still on edge and because the lawyers will have to make a show after recent events. So Molly takes the sample and says it will be ready in two days.

“What about the other body?”

Molly winces. “Well the paternity was negative, but we’re still not sure where it came from. From the autopsy it looks like—”

“Don’t. I don’t want to hear details. Nope. No. Just, leave it.”

Molly stammers and nods.

“What about the birth mark, though?”

A timid smile. “I checked after you called. Punch biopsy. It’s actually henna. I can’t clean it off or the skin will tear. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, I said stop. I already know too much.”

Molly nods. 

“Are we done, here, Sherlock?”

He looks up from Charlotte in the carseat and nods. 

Molly shrugs coyly. “It’s my day off. I’m going to head out, too.”

John’s eyebrows furrow. “God. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s, I’m fine.”

John and Sherlock pull their coats on and cover Charlotte’s carrier with a blanket. Molly leaves the lab coat on a hook by the door where her tan coat and checkered scarf are hanging. John looks at the scarf quizzically, then holds the door for Molly. 

On the pavement, Molly waves goodbye and walks down the street. John notices her gait and mousy hair and tries to remember her giggle but he can’t and shrugs it off. But the body arriving at Bart that morning and not that afternoon still niggles at him. 

He doesn’t realize he’s climbed into the back of a cab with Sherlock and set Charlotte on the seat between them. “Croydon.” He says.

Sherlock looks affronted. “Croydon?”

John stammers. “Well, I at least have to get some things. I’m still wearing yesterday’s pants.”

The cab driver sighs.

Sherlock says “Croydon.”

“She’s awfully loud at night. Worse than you and your violin.”

“John Watson, you belong at Baker Street.”

* * *

 

Two days later John is sitting across from Sherlock in their chairs, Charlotte wriggling on a blanket on the floor. His phone rings. “Molly. Hi.”

“Test’s back, John. Charlotte’s definitely your daughter.”

A smile unfurls across John’s face and Sherlock pauses at its sight and smiles back. “She’s mine,” John says, hanging up his phone.

Sherlock pauses across from him, looking proud on his behalf. 

John crosses to Charlotte and lifts her into his arms. Sherlock stands next to John and pokes a finger into Charlotte’s chubby cheek.

“You know,” John says, “To be honest, for a while there, I wasn't certain I wanted her to be mine. Because of Mary. It seemed like a relief.” He looks up at Sherlock, but his eyes shift to the side. “I know, it sounds awful.”

Sherlock’s hand rests on John’s shoulder.

John takes a deep breath. “I didn't realize how deeply I wanted her really to be mine, but now I know she is, it's the most obvious thing in the world. There's nothing else I could ever want.” He is still staring at Sherlock. “And Sherlock, I owe it all to you. You found her and brought her back to me.” He looks to Charlotte, and timidly ventures, “And now I know you really are mine, and I know what that means, and I love you with all my heart, and my veins and blood and breath all the way to my toes.” He kisses Charlotte.

He looks back up at Sherlock, eyes flickering away several times before landing on his face. There is a smile there, wide and bright, and the two begin to laugh.


End file.
